


Love Thy Family

by lavenderlotion



Series: Teen Wolf 'Cest Appreciation Week [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coming In Pants, Father/Nephew/Son Incest, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Pack Feels, Sheriff Stilinski Has a Twin, Sheriff Stilinski is a Hunter, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion
Summary: Some of Stiles’ earliest memories are of his uncle. Mostly they’re vague, barely-there wisps of thoughts that he’s not always sure are real or just figments of his imagination. He never got to see Noah often, with the way he was travelling, and then he didn't get to see Noah at all.For a long time, Stiles clung to his memories. Things seemed so much brighter when he was a child and it helped to look back on better times when things got bad. But things had gotten... better. Slowly, yes, but it had all turned around.And then, when everything was finally settled, and Stiles found himself happy, the Alpha pack showed up.





	1. Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _April 4 - Dealer’s Choice: Did you have a specific fic in mind that didn’t go with the other days? Well, here’s your chance! Today’s the day to write whatever you want!_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538889/chapters/10330371)
> 
> beta’d by Sohama!

Some of Stiles’ earliest memories are of his uncle. Mostly they’re vague, barely-there wisps of thoughts that he’s not always sure are real or just figments of his imagination. A lot of what Stiles remembers, what he can grasp at when he focuses hard enough, are feelings. Noah has always reminded him of warmth and safety, the way he would always let Stiles climb into his lap and hold him close.

He didn’t get to see Noah often. Even at six, Stiles knew that his father and uncle did not get along. Despite being identical twins, they couldn’t be more different, and not just in behaviour. John worked his way up from police deputy to the county sheriff, while Noah worked freelance security jobs, travelling all over for his work. They both wanted to help people and strived to make the world a safer place, but they went about it completely different ways.

Visually, they were easy to tell apart. John Stilinski wore his hair close-cropped and kept himself clean shaven, smooth when he kissed Stiles goodnight with no beard to tickle him. Noah Stilinski kept his hair long enough to tie back in a bun and his beard was thick and he would rub and tickle Stiles’ face with it, dotting kisses all over him. John let Stiles snuggle into his side without question, though he hardly instigated the contact whereas Noah would reach out for Stiles first, pull him in tight and not let go.

A lot of what he remembers of Noah from that age is cuddling. His dad gave good hugs, always had, but Noah seemed to hug with everything he had. Stiles could remember how it felt to curl up in Noah’s lap and fall asleep with his face pressed into his uncle's chest. Noah’s arms would always curl around Stiles to hold him close while Stiles slept. What the boy liked best was that every time he woke up, Noah would still be holding him tightly.

Stiles favourite part about cuddling with Noah was his scent, sharp and spicy. Stiles had never been able to name it, but he had always drawn comfort from it. It had been distinct, in the same way, his father’s scent had been, and it had always helped him fall asleep, even on the nights when he didn’t want to, when he would rather stay awake with Noah all night. 

But Noah hadn’t been around often. Which may have been why Stiles tried so hard to remember their time together, why he had made sure he could hold onto the memory until Noah came around again. Noah would always arrive in a whirlwind of movement and energy and excitement. Stiles loved it when Noah first came around. His mother would bake whatever Noah asked for and his father's smile would be extra big for the first few hours.

Stiles always tried to make the most of their time. He would plaster himself to Noah’s side and attract his attention, lead him by the hand up to his bedroom where he would demand Noah tell him all about his travels. After dinner, he would insist Noah help him get ready for bed, read him to sleep even when Stiles was too old for it. Then, he would sneak into the guest bedroom, climb under the covers and cuddle close, worming his way under Noah’s arms. Noah never protested, just pulled Stiles closer.

When his mom found them together in the mornings—because Noah never woke Stiles up, just continued to snuggle—she would gush over how cute they were, how nice it was that they were so close. If it was a weekend, Stiles would then spend the whole day with Noah, forcing him to play with him and sticking close. If Stiles had to go to school, he would impatiently sit through his classes counting down until Noah would pick him up.

His dad didn’t like it so much. Stiles could never figure out why his dad got upset whenever Stiles and Noah were close, but he was old enough to recognize the sour look on his dad’s face as unease. At eight he could see how his father tensed every time Stiles climbed onto his uncle’s lap. How he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, whenever Stiles curled himself close as though he were trying to bury himself in his uncle's skin.

Stiles was sure he wasn’t supposed to notice, with how polite his dad always acted when Stiles was there. But he saw how his father’s jaw went tight, watched as the man frowned and grimaced and stamped down on angry words. Stiles had always been adept at reading people but he couldn’t figure out why his dad disliked Noah so much. Stiles didn’t think they were doing anything wrong.

Stiles put it down to something from their past. It was probable that something had happened when they were younger, maybe. But Stiles didn’t miss how excited his father first got every time Noah came to visit. They always spent some time together, happy and laughing until Stiles dragged Noah away. It was only then that his father would get upset, though he tried not to show it in front of Stiles.

He felt responsible, sometimes. He wished he could fix whatever it was he was doing wrong. He didn’t want his dad to scowl whenever he saw Stiles and Noah together and he always felt bad for Noah when it happened. Every time his dad would leave the room Noah would hold Stiles closer, pull him in tighter and hide his face in Stiles’ hair for a long time.

Sometimes he wondered if it was because his dad thought Stiles loved Noah more. Which was ridiculous, really. Stiles loved his dad just as much as he loved Noah, not less. He tried to fix it, to show his dad he loved him in the ways Stiles knew, the ways he showed Noah. But John didn’t let him, would push him away when Stiles tried to climb into his lap or get him to cuddle. He hadn’t let Stiles sit in his lap for years.

He still tried! Stiles wanted to make sure his dad knew just how much he loved him, but John would get angry. He would tell Stiles he was too big, too old for them to be so close. Which, Stiles knew wasn’t true. He could still easily tuck himself under Noah’s chin when he curled up in his lap, and John and Noah were the same height! 

The worst though, was when they fought. Most visits went the same way and when Stiles was ten he was able to recognize the pattern. Noah would show up at random and not even Stiles’ parents would know he was coming. The first day would be okay, his dad taking Noah out to do whatever it was they did. They would both return in a great mood, playful and happy to be near one another.

Then, Stiles would steal away Noah’s attention, drag his uncle away so they could catch up. That was when John started to get upset and it only got worse if Stiles acted openly affectionate with his uncle. If Stiles slept with Noah—which he always did—there would almost always be a fight the next morning between the two men. Sometimes Noah left only to show up a few weeks later and sometimes he stayed until the fighting got to be too much and he had to leave.

Always, he pulled Stiles close, standing in the front hallway with his bag slung over his shoulder. He would hold Stiles tight, press a long, long kiss to his forehead before leaving with a long look at John. Stiles always felt guilty when Noah left. 

But then everything changed as his mother got sick, and, in the end, died. It had happened slowly, over the course of too many months. It had hurt to watch her waste away, to watch helplessly as she became someone else. The worst was what the disease twisted her into, how it turned her into something ugly and mean. Stiles didn’t know how to handle her calling him a monster so he tried his best to ignore it.

Stiles lost his mother when he was eleven. It hurt even more when she died. Stiles had been there, alone and afraid and furious. It hadn’t been fair, none of it had been fair and Stiles was devastated. He had known it was coming, had almost fooled himself into thinking he had been prepared for her death. It couldn’t be all that worse than watching her as she slowly lost her mind. He had thought he had been prepared—he hadn’t been, not in the least.

Nothing was the same without his mom there. 

His dad had been working more, picking up longer and longer shifts, covering for other deputies on his days off. It was hard enough going from a dual income household to having only one working parent but they also had the added pressure of medical bills. His mother’s time in the hospital had not been cheap nor had it been planned. Add to it the funeral expenses and Stiles was all too aware of why his dad was working so much.

He knew his father was trying his best, and he didn’t mind stepping up. Mostly that meant figuring out how to set his alarm clock to wake himself for school and make his own lunch and keeping the house tidy. It wasn’t as though John was a bad father, he was just busy. Stiles didn’t mind taking on extra chores if it meant his father could come to bed earlier.

Stiles hadn’t been able to sleep alone since his mother first passed. It had been horrible, sitting in that room alone as the steady beeping flattened out, dragged on and on in one loud, frightening scream. Stiles would never forget what it had sounded like. The first night, he and his father curled around each other desperately, holding onto the remnants of their family, lest someone else they love be ripped away. 

After that, they hadn't stopped sleeping together. It was the comfort of being close that they both craved and it worked for them. Stiles was able to sleep and John was able to  _ let  _ himself sleep knowing that Stiles relied on him being there. And they didn’t stop.

When he was twelve he was still sleeping with his dad, though it didn’t happen every night. His father had begun to take a few night shifts, the increased pay making it worth it during the weekends. Stiles heard the front door creak open but the steps that made their way upstairs weren’t those of his father, though nearly as familiar, even after so many months. Noah had always walked heavily and Stiles recognized the tromp his hunting boots made against the hardwood.

Stiles heard Noah walk up the stairs and pass down the hall to Stiles’ room. There was a pause before the footsteps begun again and then Noah crept into John’s room, quietly closing the door behind him. Stiles watched as Noah undressed to his underwear before he crawled under the covers, the cool air from the room slipping in with him.

Noah pulled him close, hugged Stiles tight to his chest and Stiles nuzzled against the hair there. He sneezed, the hair tickling at his nose only for him to start crying. He fell apart, knowing his uncle would hold him together - and the way Noah’s arms tightened around him only made him cry harder. 

“I’m sorry,” Noah swore and he pulled Stiles closer, too close, really, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Stiles’ forehead, “I didn’t know, I didn’t-”

Stiles was sure Noah had started to cry as well. He wrapped his small arms around his uncle's waist and squeezed, holding on as tight as he could. His dad had yet to cry in front of him, hadn’t had the time, really. Even the nights he was home were spent with him sleeping or struggling to stay awake just so he could listen to Stiles catch him up on his life as they fell asleep together. 

His dad was trying so hard and Stiles tried to help, and if helping meant pushing down his grief so John could spend less time worrying about Stiles then it was something he was willing to do. But Noah being here was good. The man smelled so different, felt so different than his dad but he was still  _ safe _ . 

He took all the comfort he needed, breathed deep and smelt Noah and his dad and listened to the beat of his uncle's heart. It was easy to fall asleep then—far easier than if he had been alone—and he tangled his legs with Noah’s. His uncle was warm and solid and  _ there _ , and god, Stiles hadn’t realized how much he had missed him until he was already slipping into sleep.

Stiles woke for just a moment to find heat along his back. His father was wrapped around him now, though he was still wearing a shirt. Noah’s chest was warm under Stiles’ cheek and he let himself smile into his uncle’s skin. His dad’s arms were warm where they were wrapped around him and he snuffled against the back of Stiles' neck. He rolled onto his back and brought Stiles with him until Stiles was laying half atop him. Stiles let the warmth of the room pull him back into sleep.

The next time he woke he was cold, the bed empty around and he got up quietly. He was confused; he and his dad always woke up together. He tiptoed his way to the bedroom door and tried to make as little noise as possible, just in case something was happening that he wasn’t supposed to see. Stiles—despite his loud mouth and flailing limbs—had learned how to be quiet years ago.

When Stiles looked down the hall he saw his dad and Noah standing close. Their chests were nearly touching but his dad was crying and he could hear it from here. It broke his heart. Stiles hadn’t heard John cry once yet, but Noah was holding his dad’s face in his hands. He was wiping at John’s cheeks, catching the tears as they fell.

Stiles watched, breath held and silent, as Noah leaned in to press their foreheads together. They stood still for a long moment, both just breathing as his dad continued to cry. But then Noah leaned in more, moved in closer and John wrapped both his arms around Noah’s waist. They pressed their bodies together and Stiles heard one of them grunt.

But then - then they were kissing, and not in a way Stiles had ever seen his dad kiss his mom. Something about it seemed desperate, more like the kisses he’d seen in movies. They had always made him uncomfortable when he saw them on TV, but Stiles rather enjoyed watching John and Noah kiss like that. Still, he turned away, aware that it wasn’t something he’d been meant to witness.

After that night, Noah stayed another three months, but Stiles never saw them kiss again. Still, Noah slept with Stiles in his dad’s bed every night, the three of them tangled together on the nights John had off. It had been good, so good to have them both there. But Noah hadn’t been able to stay forever. He had work of his own to get back to and Stiles felt his loss all the way to his toes.

It was different, having just his dad around and Stiles had to learn how to fall asleep alone all over again. His father had been taking more night shifts when Noah had been there and the pay had been so much better that Stiles insisted he didn’t stop. He made it work, learned how to take care of himself overnight. He still got to lie around in bed with John on the weekends and that was enough for Stiles. At least, that’s what he told himself. 

The first time Stiles had on orgasm he was thirteen.

Noah was visiting for a few weeks this time—he was helping around the house, doing chores for both Stiles and John so they could rest—and Stiles was happy to see his uncle again. Stiles still slept with his dad on the nights he was off and slept alone in his dad’s bed the nights he weren’t. He had trouble sleeping on his own but being surrounded by his dad's scent helped when the man wasn’t physically there. 

The nightmares had taken nearly a year to begin but now Stiles would wake screaming; pushing and thrashing and clawing at his own throat, desperately trying to empty it of the bathwater no longer there, to fight away the hands that had held him down. It helped if he could roll over and bury his face in his dad's pillow and it helped even more when his dad was there to hug him close. 

Most mornings he woke to find his dad curled around him and he would cuddle closer to his father’s warmth before getting himself up for the day. One morning he woke to a second warmth at his front and he moved closer. Noah had always smelled sharper than his dad, something extra added to his scent that Stiles had always liked. Noah’s chest hair prickled at Stiles’ nose and he sniffled though he still tucked himself closer.

He was hard in his boxers, something that had been happening more and more and he rutted forward. His brain was still fuzzy with sleep and the friction felt good so he kept going. Stiles knew he had to pee but he didn’t want to get up. Moving against Noah felt  _ really  _ good and Stiles moved his hips faster. He whined high in his throat at the drag of his penis. He’d never—he’d never felt anything like this before.

Noah settled an arm around Stiles’ waist and Stiles froze. He held his breath and kept still, worried he was going to get in trouble, though for what he had no idea. Noah moved his hand until it settled wide over Stiles’ bum, his skin warm even through the thin material of Stiles’ briefs. Noah wasn’t pushing Stiles forward but his hand added a pressure Stiles couldn’t stop feeling and then—and then Noah  _ squeezed  _ and god, that felt good.

It felt really good and Stiles whined again because of it. He pushed forward harder, encouraged now to keep going, to roll his hips against his uncle’s thigh. Pressure built in his stomach and his bladder felt like it was ready to  _ explode _ . Stiles didn’t know what to do but it felt so good that he didn’t want to stop, couldn’t stop, not when he felt so amazing. 

He wiggled and he tried to get away but Noah was pulling him closer, shushing him softly. Stiles couldn’t hold it in anymore though, the pressure was too much and he knew—he knew he was going to wet the bed, he was going to pee. Still, he pushed his hips forward once, twice more and the pressure exploded. He released a high kneeing noise, maybe even shouted and he curled inward. He felt good, so good, better than he ever thought he could feel.

His penis was twitching and God, he wasn’t peeing. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what an orgasm was but it felt so much better than he ever could have imagined. He rested his forehead against Noah’s chest heavily and his penis jumped again in his boxers. He felt good, so good and Noah was still rubbing at Stiles’ back. He let himself relax, sink into the feelings that settled over him.

Hazy contentedness crept through his body and he sighed, arching his back a little as he burrowed further in his uncle’s chest. His uncle was hard and stiff pressing into his hip but Stiles’ brain was working too slow for him to realize what that may mean. He thought he heard his father say something, felt the rumble against his back but he wasn’t sure, their voices were too similar when they were rough with sleep.

When Stiles woke the next morning Noah and John were both gone, but that wasn’t wildly unusual. Stiles didn’t think anything of it until he went downstairs only to find his dad, already dressed for the day—despite it still being early on a Sunday. John told him that Noah had to leave already, that his uncle was sorry he hadn’t been able to stay and say goodbye.

It had made Stiles sad, confused and Stiles had tried to curl up next to his father to cuddle but the man had been … hesitant. He hadn’t pulled Stiles as close to his side as he had only days before, nor had he let him climb into his lap.

It made Stiles feel like he had done something wrong, but he couldn’t possibly think of  _ what _ . His father had assured him that it wasn’t something Stiles had done, just that Stiles was getting to be too big to cuddle. It had seemed like an excuse for something else since Stiles figured no one was ever _ too big _ to cuddle. 

But his dad wouldn’t budge and Stiles hated to make him upset. He relented, though not without a fight. He figured his dad would get over his silly hesitance—it wasn’t as though he had ever shied away from physical contact before—but John held strong. Eventually, Stiles stopped trying to climb into his dad’s lap and he let their hugs end sooner and sooner. It seemed like Stiles was the only one missing the touch they used to share.

Finally, he stopped climbing into his father's bed, too. It hurt, when he realized his dad was only humouring him. Stiles had thought—had been so sure—that they both slept better together but John seemed fine the first few nights Stiles exiled himself into his own room. So he stopped. He taught himself how to sleep alone, how to sleep in his bed for the first time in over a year. 

It was hard, not to have his dad or his uncle. Ever since his mom died, they were the two most important people in his life. But with Noah not coming back and hardly answering when Stiles tried to call him, with his dad refusing touch and working more, Stiles felt alone. He felt alone and it  _ hurt _ . It hurt because Stiles didn’t know what he had done, he had no idea what he had done to drive away the two people he loved most.

He didn’t know how to fix anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWCAW is done! I can't believe that this week got the reaction it did, and I'm very happy! It took off in a way I was never at all expecting, and I can't wait to see what will happen next year!
> 
> Same as with _Daddies'R'Us_ , I have the first three chapters of this story written. Unfourtantly, I do not have a completed outline yet—but never fear, I am determined to finish this story! I started writing this back in November, and rewrote the 7k that I had (turning it into 12k). I'm so excited to see just where this fic goes, and I really hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! The next two Chapters will be posted during April, with uploads continuing into June!
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr!!!](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)


	2. Towards

For a long time, Stiles clung to his memories. Things seemed so much brighter when he was a child and it helped to look back on better times when things got bad. Memories only did so much, though, and things continued as they were, slowly, with days that dragged by.

Noah was still gone and Stiles had given up trying to reach him after a few months. Noah had never been one to be far from his phone and Stiles knew the only reason Noah wasn’t answering was that his uncle was choosing not to. It hurt, to feel like he’d been left behind. The distance from his dad hurt more, differently, than the distance from Noah. 

With John, Stiles saw it every day. Felt it in every interaction they shared. He could still remember how close they once were and the distance John forced between them was dizzying. Stiles had no idea what he had done wrong, even after years, and he resigned himself to never be as close to John as he had once been.

Stiles hadn’t realized what his uncle had done—at least not really, not in any real way—until he was nearly fourteen. Mostly, it took so long because Stiles avoided thinking about his uncle after that night. Noah had never just disappeared before, never left without saying goodbye and then refused contact. He had always picked up when Stiles called—and if he hadn’t, he had always called back the first chance he got.

But after that night, the first time Stiles came, Noah had cut off all communication. It hurt, and Stiles tried to push the harsh pang of rejection to the back of his mind. He couldn’t deal with losing his uncle and his father at the same time, so he focused on the growing distance between him and John. 

However, even if Stiles tried his best not to think of it, the feelings were still there. The abandonment he felt never lessened. It was horrible, how sharply it stung. He had always been secure in his uncle’s love for him. He had never doubted how much he meant to Noah and never had to worry that he loved his uncle more than his uncle loved him. They had always been demonstrative with their feelings and it had never crossed Stiles’ mind to question how much Noah cared for him.

Their relationship had always been so focused on physical intimacy that Stiles never had to worry. Noah was just as affectionate with Stiles as Stiles was with him. But then that morning happened and suddenly Noah was  _ gone _ . He was gone, and he wouldn’t answer Stiles’ calls and Stiles only knew he was okay because his father had told him so. And it hurt.

Stiles had felt guilty, too. He blamed himself for Noah’s departure and his continued distance. It couldn’t be anything else, not when he left after Stiles had come against him. Stiles must have done something wrong, something he hadn’t been aware of. Stiles had been so sure it had been his fault, and he had been so hard on himself because of it. The few times he did let himself think of Noah, he only felt shame and guilt for his own actions. 

It had taken Stiles a long time to realize what exactly Noah had done. It had been a shock to put together what his innocent mind had rationalized with what he had learned. At first, when he came to the conclusion that Noah had helped him get off against his own thigh, he had felt violated. He had been so young, too young, and he hadn’t known what he’d been doing. He felt dirty about the whole night. 

It wasn’t a feeling Stiles liked, and he tried not to think about it too much, even less than he thought about Noah. He still loved his uncle, which was maybe the most confusing part. 

His dreams were the worst, though. They twisted Noah into a dark, evil thing. The dreams left him gasping awake all over again, only now he didn’t have his father or uncle to pull him close. They conflicted with what he remembered of his uncle and he developed two distinct images of how he viewed Noah. It was hard to reconcile those into one person and he knew—he knew his uncle had not been a monster. 

It hurt, the whole situation. Stiles felt better knowing he had done nothing wrong—and he hadn’t, he wasn’t going to blame himself for Noah’s actions—but it made his mind no clearer. It was easy to vilify Noah after going so long without seeing him, but Stiles couldn’t turn his father into a monster as well. And John had been in the room, in the bed, had been awake at some point and he hadn’t done anything to stop it.

Stiles hadn’t been quiet. He knew Noah had hardly made a sound but Stiles could remember how loud he had been. It had been his first time coming, after all, and he knew he hadn’t so silently. John was a light sleeper and Stiles knew he had been awoken by less noise countless times before—but he had done nothing to stop it.

It turned his head into one large, confused mess and it made his chest feel too tight. He had no idea how to handle it all. It took him a long while to work through, to get to a place where just the thought of Noah didn’t make his stomach turn.  

The worst part—or the hardest for Stiles to come to terms with—was how much he still loved Noah. Of course he did. But Stiles hadn’t known any better, had been too young to know better. He hadn’t known what he was doing and Noah should have put a stop to it—he especially should not have encouraged it. Stiles felt like a positive experience, his first orgasm, had been tainted, made into something he didn’t want to remember.

Except—except for all the late nights when he  _ did _ remember. When he lied awake and his thoughts got away from him, turned darker and dirtier until he had a hand wrapped around his own cock, hard, so hard, all he could think of was that night. He couldn’t help but think about Noah and John and them together—the time he saw them kiss is something he thinks about a lot—and it makes him even more confused. 

Because Stiles was attracted to Noah, and to John, and he doesn’t know how to handle any of that. It wasn’t a new attraction, either. He could look back and watch as his childlike adoration had turned into something different, more, a low burn in his gut. He can remember sneaking glances and the lingering touches and Stiles thinks he may know why John had put distance between—that the man may have noticed something Stiles hadn’t. 

Worst still, was that Stiles loved them both—was in love with them both. At fifteen, he was hesitant to claim such a thing, but it couldn’t be anything else. Not with how much he cared for them both and how deep it hurt that they weren’t there for him. 

His crush on Lydia Martin was as good a cover as any, and he played it up as much as he could. Looking back, he found it obvious—the feelings he held for the two men, but it had taken him a long time to accept them. He dealt with his feelings as well as he could. At first, that meant pushing them away, not even letting them out late at night when he was alone. 

But, he was a teenage boy and that—that didn’t keep. He would think about them only with the lights off and only to get off. He let himself admit to his physical attraction but nothing more. It didn’t take him long for his thoughts to bleed into his regular life—no matter how hard he tried to keep his feelings locked away.

When he let himself think about it, opened himself to what he felt and stopped trying to deny himself, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The simple act of admitting his feelings to himself took a huge pressure off his back. It didn’t mean that it stopped hurting. He knew it was pointless—knew that his feelings would never be reciprocated and there was truly no hope of that changing. 

It just made the distance between him and his dad and the lack of communication from his uncle hurt all the more. But—but he dealt with it. Not well, maybe, but he did and he learned how to fake a smile that even his dad believed. 

Thankfully, Stiles had his big gay-incestuously-in-love-with-my-dad-and-uncle freakout before Scott got bitten. He had dealt with the feelings he had before his entire world got turned upside down. Being thrown into the supernatural world had been  _ amazing _ , at first. The excitement had quickly worn off, though, the first time Stiles had to run for his life from his best friend.

The supernatural was not exciting. It was dangerous and it was terrifying and it was far more than Stiles could handle. But—but there was no going back, not after Scott got turned.

It only got worse when he realized just how much he had to lie to his dad. How he had to twist his words and bend the truth. Sneaking out and getting hurt and  _ lying _ . Stiles hated it all. He felt like he was betraying his dad—even more than he did during the nights he lied awake thinking about him—every time he had to keep something a secret, or explain away a bruise, his heart ached. 

Even after his father carefully carved out distance between them, they were still close—the two of them against the world.

But—but Stiles had to keep his father safe. He had to keep his father safe and if that meant hiding things from him, well—Stiles would do what he had to. Between werewolves and murdering Alphas and old men who hit  _ too hard _ , knowing that he could keep his dad out of that world gave him a little control. It helped keep him from spiralling, from letting the darkness that had become his world consume him.

It was hard, and it hurt, but if it was what he had to do—well, he would lie to his dad to keep him safe. He told his dad it was because of lacrosse, that another team had taken him and he hoped to god John believed him. He hurt too much to come up with anything better.

Stiles had never expected to sneak back into his house to find his dad passed out, empty whisky bottle still on the end table next to him. Stiles had only seen his dad drunk a handful of times—all of those during the month following his mother’s death—and he never wanted to see his father like that again. 

Seeing his dad drunkenly passed out only reminded Stiles of the terrible, grief-filled months they had fought through together, and it wasn’t a time he liked to think about it. It reminded him of how his father tempered his heartache with liquor and that—that hadn’t been a good time for Stiles. So seeing John passed out, empty liquor bottle on the table next to him—well, it changed things. 

Stiles could handle being beaten, and tortured and threatened as many times as the world pleased. So long as he didn’t lose his dad. Because that, well, he wouldn’t ever be able to handle losing John. The next morning John didn’t go to work and Stiles didn't go to school and instead, Stiles told him everything. 

And after—after he cried and begged for forgiveness—his father pulled him close. Stiles folded his too-long limbs into his dad's lap in a way he hadn’t done in years, tucked his head under his dad's chin and let himself feel safe. He clung, unapologetically, as he sobbed out apologies. John rubbed his back in long, soothing strokes and held him close without complaint, in a way he hadn’t done in years. The pressure hurt the bruises he still had, the ones from Gerard’s boots and his fists, but he wasn’t going to protest. 

After Stiles had calmed down enough to breathe without hiccuping, he had expected John to push him away, to force back the walls between them. But he hadn’t—rather, he began to talk, voice hesitant in a way Stiles had never heard it before. John told him that he  _ knew _ . Not what Stiles had been into, not exactly, but that he knew about the supernatural. 

That had been a shock, so much so that, if John hadn’t held him tight, Stiles would have fallen out of his lap and onto the floor. He blinked at his dad for a long, silent moment as he tried to process the fact that this whole time—the whole time Stiles was lying, and hurting, and fighting with himself to keep it all hidden away in a desperate attempt to keep his dad safe—John had known.

John explained that the Stilinski’s had once been a well-known hunter family, back in Poland. They had been as established as the Argent’s were throughout America, years and years ago, and although their numbers had dwindled down, there were still some who hunted. Noah being one of them. His father had been trained too, but he had never followed his family's legacy.

Instead, he became a cop. He was aware of the supernatural goings in their small town, and until recently he had never been forced to act on what he knew. There had been the Hale fire, his dad said, but whoever committed that crime had been too clean and knew too many people. His father was devastated to let such a crime go, but he hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

After that, he had continued to sit on his knowledge. If the Argents hadn’t come to town, John would have acted. Rusty as he was, he couldn’t let the Alpha take any more lives. Beacon Hills, as he explained, was his town and he would do what he had to in order to keep the town safe.

It made sense, in some ways, that John was a Hunter. Stiles could look back John’s insistence on self-defence classes, how he pushed and pushed and made sure Stiles could hold his own in a fight. Stiles had always assumed that John taught Stiles how to shoot—and how to shoot  _ well _ —because they always had a gun in the house. Now Stiles could see the parallels to what he knew of Allison’s own introduction into her families traditions. 

So John had known. He had known and he had forgiven Stiles and it all just made Stiles love him more.

The conversation also made him see his dad in another light. With Noah, terms had always been fluid. He was Noah just as often as he was Uncle. But John, his dad, had almost always been just that. Dad, or Pops, or Daddio. But the more often Stiles thought of them both—thought of them in ways he shouldn’t—he found himself thinking of his father as John. He didn't feel as strange about it as he probably should, hell, it wasn’t nearly as weird as some thoughts he had about his dad. 

Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the lack of stress after the conversation with his dad, but Stiles couldn’t help but notice how the Pack had settled together. It could have been the looming threat of  _ something _ , whatever it was that had taken Erica and Boyd, that pulled them together—that they realized the only way they would all survive would be by banding together—but they were more of a Pack than they had ever been.

Peter seemed to have fallen in line under Derek, much calmer than he had previously been, no more tarnished Alpha power coursing through him. Isaac stuck close to them both—Stiles thought it had something to do with Boyd and Erica’s disappearance, their need to stick close to one another—and he was learning control far better than Scott ever had. He adapted to being a wolf quickly, when he finally had someone to teach him.

Stiles also found himself to be a steady presence inside the pack. It had taken him a few days to go around, but when he had finally found Derek’s current hiding spot, he had been welcomed by the three wolves. When Derek first found out about what Gerard had done, the older wolf been furious. His anger had surprised Stiles—he hadn’t been expecting Derek to care so deeply about him. He barely had time to parse through his feelings about  _ Derek caring about him _ before Peter and Isaac were there too, curled around him in his bed.

Isaac had cuddled close and Peter patiently explained that it was something wolves did to speed up the healing process of their injured pack mate. Not that Stiles was actually injured—not anymore, all of Gerard’s bruises had faded to nothing, the only memory of their time together the thin, white scars that now littered his body. 

Stiles didn’t complain, though. He had never—he had never been  _ wanted _ like that before, appreciated and cared for by someone other than his family. Yes, he had always had Scott, but the supernatural had shown Stiles just how one-sided their friendship had been. It hurt, at first—the realization that he cared more about Scott than Scott cared about him—but he got over it. He plastered on a smile and said he was fine just like he’d been doing for years.

Their pack was small, but they were close and sometimes Stiles thought—even in his humanity—he could see the golden threads of magic binding them together. He knew the others could actually feel them, their pack bonds, and Stiles was jealous he wasn’t able to as well. Peter, furious that a member of his pack had been hurt by another Argent, gifted Stiles with a large tome. The book was old, paper long since yellowed, ink faded so bad Stiles struggled to make out some words.

Despite its age, Stiles could feel the power of the magic it held. Peter had heard about Stiles’ moment with mountain ash and had gotten Stiles as many books as he could find on magic—lest Stiles again be in a position where he was unable to defend himself. 

Stiles spent weeks reading, going through the end of the school year and the beginning of summer teaching himself magic and bonding with his pack, before he told his father. While John was not an official member of the pack, he was certainly considered pack-adjacent and often allowed the three wolves over while Derek looked for a place to live. 

Stiles found himself feeling content. His pack and his dad were under one roof more often than not and he got to surround himself with nearly all of his favourite people. His friendship with Isaac had grown into something soft and comfortable, and he and Peter regularly traded sarcastic barbs. 

It had been on one of those nights, his father home for the evening and his pack crowded around his living room, that their numbers grew. They had all settled around the living room after a large meal and Stiles was riding the high of his pack bonds, that he could now feel through the spark of magic in his chest. 

Chris Argent had shown up at his front door, face twisted into something apologetic and Stiles could read the regret in the lines of his face. He had insisted he was there only to apologize, though John didn’t let him through the door until Derek nodded his approval. Chris did apologize, and it sounded heartfelt and sincere and even without supernatural senses, Stiles could tell Chris was being honest in his remorse, at the shame he felt for the actions of his family. 

Stiles was a little shocked when the man apologized on behalf of his father, but Stiles waved him off. It was Gerard that left him with scars—Chris had never done anything more than mildly threaten him. 

When Chris had finished his speech, he turned to Peter and stared at the older wolf for a long moment. Stiles had no idea what was going on, but he could feel the  _ tensionpainfear _ roll along their bonds when he focused on Peter. Chris had broken the silence with  _ ‘It had always been true,’ _ and Stiles could tell the words held significance to them both. 

He watched Peter tense and he readied himself to ask Chris to leave, but then Peter was throwing himself forward. Peter latched onto Chris, hugged him tightly and desperately and it only took a second for Chris to hug Peter back just the same. Stiles led the other three out of the room at Peter's first sob, letting the two have their moment alone. There was clearly more history there than any of them had realized. 

When they had gotten back to the house, it was to find them both on the couch—Chris hardly awake with Peter lying atop him, asleep. Stiles had nodded at the hunter, after flashing his eyes in warning, and nodded for Derek to take the guest room while he took Isaac up with him. He had gotten used to the other teens need for physical contact and he didn’t mind it one bit. Stiles had felt touch starved for years, since Noah first left him, and he didn’t mind letting Isaac into his bed. 

After that night, Chris became a member of their pack. Stiles wasn’t sure what Peter said to Derek to allow it, but the Hunter bowed his neck, submitted to Derek as his Alpha and Derek’s eyes had flashed crimson with acknowledgement. It had been hard for them to adjust to someone new, to find how Chris fit them. 

Unsurprisingly, Chris and John got along well—bonding over their childhoods, each raised to Hunter families, though Chris’ upbringing was far harsher than John and Noah’s—and their interest in weaponry. Stiles got to see a whole new side of his father, one he hadn’t even known to be there, and Chris slowly settled into the pack. 

Despite Stiles’ and Chris’ presence in the pack, Scott and Allison never came around. 

Stiles knew, from the very beginning, that Scott hadn’t wanted to be a werewolf. It didn’t matter that he loved all the things being a werewolf had given him: his super strength, his popularity, and in a way, his first girlfriend. It didn’t matter that Scott was healthier now, that he healed faster. All Scott ever focused on was how he had been made into a ‘monster’. Scott rebelled against his nature, and Stiles was worried the boy was going to become an Omega. Stiles knew there was only so much he could do, though, and if Scott didn’t want his help—well, Stiles wasn’t going to force it. 

Allison—from what Stiles could see at school—was as unstable as she had ever been. The loss of her mother had been too much for her to handle, and she still seemed to blame Derek, taking to avoiding Stiles in the halls. Stiles doubted she knew the truth, not the way she clung to Scott. Stiles was aware that Peter had filled Chris in on the true events of that night, and while Stiles figured Chris should talk with Allison, it wasn’t his place to say anything. She would come around or she wouldn’t, and while Stiles didn’t personally care, he hoped things worked out—if only for Chris’ sake. 

Stiles was content with their pack. They were small but they were unique. Three Wolves, a Spark and a Hunter. They were close, their pack bonds solid. Stiles had ensured it, had watched as the bonds between them grew and strengthened. It was a beautiful thing and with his magic Stiles got to watch as they grew, threading them together and joining them as one. He was proud of how far they had come.

Everything had been good,  _ so good _ , and then the Alpha pack showed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Like with Daddies'R'Us, I have the next chapter of this story written, but nothing beyond that. Unfortunately, I have a few other stories that I need to work on first before can go in and finish this one. So while Chapter 3 will be posted before the end of this month, I can't promise when other updates will be, other than hopefully beginning in June.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter!
> 
> [my tumblr!!!](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)


	3. Welcome Home

Training in the preserve was something the pack had started to do before the Alpha pack made its presence known, but it was something they’d been doing much more frequently in the past couple of weeks. The pack spent nearly all their free time together, though it wasn’t all training in the woods. 

They spent a considerable amount of time looking for Erica and Boyd. Derek, Peter and Isaac scoured the Preserve, hoping to find anything that could give them a clue as to where they may have gone. Chris kept his ears out, contacting old Hunter ‘buddies’ that he trusted. But so far, they had found nothing. 

It was hard to keep hope, as days bled into weeks with them collectively turning up nothing. Stiles had never been close with either of them, but he saw how their absence weighed on Derek and Isaac. John had been the one to wonder if the Alpha pack had taken them. They would know if it had been Hunters who had taken them, and they would know if they had left the pack willingly—their bond with Derek could have survived them running away, but it wouldn't have survived them willingly turning from the pack.

It made sense, and it only made the pack more anxious. Between the contacts Peter had before the fire and the contacts Chris currently had in the Hunter community, they were able to gather a considerable amount of information on the Alpha pack. Knowing how many members the pack consisted of and who those members were, helped. Knowing the evils the Alpha pack had committed in the past and what they had to fear gave them something specific to train towards.

It also let them know how entirely underprepared they were for the pack's arrival.

As a pack of five Alphas, each with the power of their own packs that they had murdered, they were far more than what Stiles believed they would be able to deal with. It had them scared and Stiles was terrified of what would happen when the Alphas finally made the first move.

All they could do was train even more, try to prepare themselves in whatever ways they could. They had upped their training from twice a week to anytime they were available. Most days after school and even some evenings, they would trek out to the preserve. They had a few different clearings they used regularly, where they trained and worked on whatever was needed.

It was helping them, though. Stiles could see the improvement in his pack, the way they got along with one another and behaved individually. Derek was doing much better as an Alpha, and it seemed that as soon as he had a stable pack to lead, he settled into the position and the power it came with. 

Peter and Derek were training Isaac, helping him get a hold of his wolf and cementing his control. Isaac had a strong anchor from the moment he was turned, and his control only grew under the guide of the Peter and Derek. As Isaac got more in control of his wolf, he seemed to… settle, into his own skin. He wasn’t nearly as skittish, nor did he use biting insults to cover his own insecurities. 

Peter—Peter had been calmed by Chris. Stiles wasn’t sure what the story with them was, but both men seemed softer around the edges, like they balanced each other out. It was nice for Stiles to see, especially as he came to care for Peter and Chris more and more.

Peter was still offering him books on magic, and although he couldn’t practice himself, he seemed to be a wealth of knowledge. Stiles asked as many questions as he could think of, pouring over the texts that Peter brought him and building his spark. It was still a small, simple thing, but he had faith his magic would grow as he continued to use it.

In addition to the magic Stiles was teaching himself, with Peter’s help and resources, Chris had begun to train him. Stiles had experience with hand-to-hand—when he was younger, his father had cycled him through different fighting classes to help with his ADHD, only letting Stiles stop very recently—and it didn’t take long for Stiles to be able to hold his own against the Hunter, as long as Chris held himself back a little. 

Chinese daggers were clearly Allison's choice of weapon, but Stiles wasn’t hesitant to take them for himself. It was clear Chris enjoyed teaching him to use them, and Stiles took to them quickly. He had never expected he would have the coordination to use a weapon like daggers, but it was like everything else fell away when he fought. Whether it was during training or sparring with the pack, Stiles’ mind went hyper-focused in a way it never had before. 

It was like the outside world slowly bled away and all that was left was him and whomever he was fighting. The same thing happened when Chris brought him to the shooting-range. Being the son of the Sheriff meant Stiles knew how to use a gun—his father wasn’t going to keep one in the house if Stiles could hurt himself with it—and he was a good shot. Stiles had happily shown Chris what he could do, gladly soaking up the praise he received. 

Because of his ease around firearms, Chris went a little overboard with equipping Stiles. It worked out, though, as Stiles could share his new horde of bullets with his father, ensuring the man would be safe as well. It wasn't that his father was against Stiles being trained, it was that he was too busy to help directly. For such a small town, Beacon Hills sure put its Sheriff Department to work. 

So, it wasn’t unusual to find the pack in the woods, and Stiles cheered on Isaac where he was sparring with Derek. Peter had taken a liking to Isaac, and had spent a fair bit of time with the boy since they all came together. Chris wasn’t far behind, though he acted far more like a father figure to Isaac than Stiles had been expecting. He wasn’t sure if it was the distance between Chris and Allison that caused it, but as long as Isaac didn’t get hurt, Stiles wasn’t going to say anything.

It was obvious in Isaac’s fighting just how much time he was spending with Peter. They clearly trained on their own—probably during the times Stiles was training with Chris—and already Stiles could see the change. He wouldn’t be surprised if Isaac had been working with Chris too, but he couldn’t be certain. 

Derek was all brute force. He was an Alpha, and he used his superior strength to his advantage in a fight. He went head on with his opponent, rushed them and tried to take them out with strength alone. It worked because Derek  _ was _ strong, his own strength building as the pack grew, and they got stronger individually.

Peter’s own fighting style couldn’t be more different. The older wolf was all grace and strategy. Peter hung back, he waited, and he watched until he found something about his opponent that he could use to his advantage. He took his time, liked to tease whomever it was he was sparring against. Stiles could only imagine what he would be like in a real fight. 

Isaac used his smaller size and speed in any way he could. It was fun to watch, especially when he paired against Derek. Stiles cheered louder, clapping as Isaac ducked under a punch Derek threw his way. Peter cheered with him, a slower clap to Stiles’ over-excited one.

The two continued to fight in much the same way, Derek charging towards Isaac only for him to duck out of the way in the last minute, until Derek charged again. Isaac side-stepped out of the way easily, but as soon as he was clear of Derek’s arm span he sprinted forward and landed a hard kick to the back of Derek’s knee. Derek fell and Isaac went with him, wrapping a hand around Derek’s throat when the Alpha threw out his hands to catch himself. 

They were both panting, only seconds later, when Derek clapped the ground in surrender. Isaac let out a holler, the loudest noise Stiles had ever heard from him, and he couldn’t help his smile. It was wonderful to see Isaac so comfortable—Stiles could still remember how quiet and reserved the other boy had been when his father had been alive, and then how quickly he became sharp with his words, as soon as Derek turned him. 

Isaac, now, was neither skittish nor abrasive. He seemed calm in his skin, settled in a way Stiles could never remember him being. And Stiles knew that was how Isaac truly felt. The bond between them—between  _ all _ of them—was stronger than it had ever been. In the moment, Stiles could feel Isaac’s triumph and the pride both Derek and Peter felt towards Isaac for doing so well.

“Now, do you think you could take  _ me _ down?” Peter called out, leaning back on his hands as he stretched out in the grass. 

“O-oh, uh. No, no I don’t think so,” Isaac said, his face flushing further when he met Peter’s gaze for a moment.

“You did great, Isaac!” Stiles said, and he knew his face was stretched with his smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and he turned to help Derek stand. 

They scented each other for a moment, Derek taking a minute to cup the back of Isaac’s neck and speak with him quietly. Stiles couldn't help but be proud of how far Derek had come, happy that he let himself be nurturing with his beta when he was nothing but harsh judgment before.

A breeze blew through the clearing and Stiles’ shivered, regretting his decision to leave his plaid shirt at home. For a while, the layers he wore had been something akin to armour. He had felt more comfortable in loose clothing. It wasn’t that he had hated his body, not at all, he just hadn’t loved it. He had always been thin, too-long limbs that got in the way.

Through training with Chris, he was already beginning to notice a difference. His body was still thin, but he was slowly filling out, building muscle and making his body into something he enjoyed the sight of. He no longer felt the need to wear as much, to cover up in the ways he used to. 

While he enjoyed feeling better about himself, he didn’t enjoy being cold. “Are you guys ready to head back?”

“I told you to wear a coat,” Peter teased, but he still shrugged out of his leather jacket—Stiles refused to buy one, even if  _ everyone else _ had one, his father included—and draped it over Stiles’ shoulders once they were both standing.

Isaac’s face was still a little flushed from the fight and Derek’s face carried a soft smile. They looked happy,  _ felt _ happy, and it made Stiles’ chest feel warm.

* * *

Stiles would never get over how much he enjoyed spending time with his pack. For a while, Stiles never thought he could have something like this. For so long, it had just been him and Scott, the two of them against the world. And that had been  _ fine _ , really. Neither of them needed anyone else, not when they had one another.

But then Scott got bit, turned, and suddenly they didn’t only have each other. Because Scott had Allison, and he also had lacrosse and popularity and Stiles had been desperately trying to keep his head above water—not even a wolf but paying for it all the same. He had been left behind—and sure, maybe Scott hadn’t meant to all but abandon him, but he  _ had _ . 

Stiles had been alone, for a while. Now, though, he had a  _ pack _ . He belonged. He would never take their bonds for granted. 

He happily led them into his house from the backyard, and his wards washed over him when he stepped through the gate. Wards were the first magic Stiles had taught himself, and he had practised and practised until he could get them right. It put him at ease knowing his home was safe, and he warded the loft in turn. He added to them as he learned more, and he trusted them to help protect his pack.

“I’m going to shower!” Isaac called, already jogging up the stairs. 

Stiles smiled after him, heading straight from the back door into the kitchen. He grabbed the kettle from the counter and filled it with water. It was rare to find Peter without a cup of tea, and Stiles knew a glass would help himself warm up. He pulled a water bottle out of the fridge and tossed it to Derek before the Alpha could ask, and he got a smile for his efforts.

Silence settled over the kitchen, and Stiles let himself bask in the easy, comfortable atmosphere. Derek left—probably to go wash up—and Stiles quietly waited for the water to boil. He had no problem being alone with Peter, felt entirely at ease with him being there, and it was something Stiles never could have imagined a few months ago. Derek walked back into the kitchen with cleaner hands, still towel drying his face.

“What are the plans for the evening?” Derek asked, settling next to Peter at the island as Stiles pulled down some tea bags.

“Chris should be around soon,” Peter said, pulling his phone from his jeans and thumbing the screen open.

“Oh, is he bringing his Hunter friend over?” Stiles asked, leaning back against the counter.

“Oh, hush,” Peter chided, rolling his eyes at Derek’s growl. “You already agreed that bringing someone in to help was a good idea. You know how excited Chris was to be seeing one of his old buddies.”

“It is a good idea,” Derek said, taking a swig of his water. “but that doesn’t mean I want more hunters in our territory.” 

“Chris promised this one followed the code,” Stiles said with a shrug, grabbing two mugs down.

“I am not going to trust a stranger when it comes to my pack, Stiles,” Derek all but growled out, and Stiles rolled his eyes at the move.

“I know, big guy. And I don’t blame you, but Chris trusts him, and I think we should give him a chance. We need all the help we can get, right now.”

“I’m with Stiles,” Isaac said, coming into the kitchen and standing next to Peter, leaning into the man's side. “There is no way we would be ready if the Al-”

Isaac paused mid-sentence, and all three wolves titled their heads a little to the side. It was strange to watch all of them hear something that Stiles’ couldn’t, and Stiles wasn’t sure he would ever get used to the way they all reacted to things that Stiles couldn’t hear. 

When Stiles looked, Derek’s eyes were burning red.

“I’m guessing Chris is back?” Stiles said, flicking off the kettle and walking towards the hall.

He was stopped by Peter’s hand grabbing his bicep, and he turned a confused look to the wolf. Peter’s eyes were a bright blue, and Stiles could hear the low growl he was letting out. Stiles had no idea what was going on, but he was beginning to worry, unsure of what could be causing such a reaction.

“Guys?” Stiles asked, not liking what he could feel through the bonds.

“The Hunter knows who you are?” Isaac said, moving to stand in front of Stiles

“... is my nephew,” Stiles heard, and even after years Stiles recognized the voice immediately.

His reaction was thoughtless, familiar, and Stiles was moving within the next second, shaking off Peter’s arm and rushing towards the door with long, hurried strides. He was in Noah’s arms before he could even take a breath, and he hardly noticed that he was picked off the floor and spun around, Noah hugging him just as tight as Stiles was him. It felt like Stiles was trying to mold them together, that maybe if he could squeeze tight enough he’d never have to be without Noah again—and it felt like Noah was doing the same.

Stiles could still tuck his head under Noah’s chin, and he did so now, his eyes burning with tears. It felt like too much, like  _ everything _ and Stiles didn’t know how to react. It had been so long, too long, but Noah still smelt just like he always had, pine and musk and  _ safety _ , and Stiles knew he was crying.

The pack never shied away from physical touch, and as they grew closer, they only touched more. It wasn’t unusual for them to curl up together after training, taking comfort in one another. Isaac, especially, seemed to crave touch and Stiles never pushed him away. After the loss of Noah and then John pulling away from him, Stiles craved touch, too.

Hugging Isaac felt nothing like hugging Noah, though. Noah was able to curl around him, arms wrapping almost completely around Stiles’ frame as Noah nosed at his temple. His beard tickled the skin on Stiles’ forehead, but he could hardly feel it over the overwhelming surge of emotions. Stiles felt  _ safe _ , the same way he had every time Noah had held him when he was younger. 

He felt small, protected, and he… he felt wanted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten a hug from his dad, not one like this, and it made him cry harder. It made Stiles’ heart  _ ache _ , remembering just how much his Uncle’s disappearance hurt him. He had missed Noah, fuck, had  _ mourned _ him. Stiles hadn’t ever thought he would see his Uncle again but here he was, clinging equally tight.

It suddenly felt like too much and the weight of Noah’s around him felt too-tight, restricting. Stiles tried to back away but Noah wouldn’t let him, kept him pressed close and Stiles continued to fight against him. He got his arms between them, his heart pounding wildly in his chest even as his eyes continued to water. He beat at Noah’s chest, vision too blurred with tears to see what he was doing, but he kept hitting.

“I’m sorry,  _ baby _ , please,” Noah said, though Stiles could hardly hear him over the hitching of his own breath, and he hit harder.

“I never wanted to leave you,” Noah whispered and Stiles fell forward again, buried his face in Noah’s chest as he continued to cry, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.

It felt like his whole world was falling apart, and the only thing keeping him upright was where Noah was holding him. Which was probably true, since Stiles wasn’t sure his knees would have continued to hold him up. He didn’t… he didn’t know how to react, what to do, fuck, how to  _ feel _ . 

“I’m sorry,” Noah said again, pressed the words into the skin along Stiles' forehead but Stiles shook his head. 

He didn’t try to move back this time, but he needed Noah to know it wasn’t enough. He knew he couldn’t talk, could hardly breathe, and his heart hurt. He couldn't figure out why Noah was back, why Noah would come to help but had never answered one of Stiles’ calls. Why he would disappear for  _ years _ , leaving Stiles to blame himself for far too long.

But it wasn’t his fault, had never been his fault, and he didn't like how it felt like it was. Stiles had spent too much time blaming himself for something that hadn’t been his to blame, and he wasn’t going to start doing it again. He stumbled backwards and this time Noah let him, the man's arms slowly falling to his sides.

Noah looked torn open, his own eyes red and wet. He was crying too, but it didn’t make Stiles feel any better. He gave himself a moment to take in the changes in Noah’s appearance. Noah looked older, of course he did, the lines along his forehead and around his eyes deeper than they had been before. His beard was longer than Stiles’ had ever seen it, and his hair was still pulled back in a bun.

He looked  _ good _ , looked like he did in Stiles’ dreams. But he was here, was  _ real _ , and that made all the difference. Stiles wanted to reach out to touch again, to caress or hit he wasn’t sure, but he held himself back. He wrapped his arms around himself, a desperate attempt to hold himself together. 

He stepped back when Noah stepped forward, Stiles’ back hitting the wall, and he shook his head again. He wiped at his eyes, his face, tried to clear his vision, but he was still crying. He could hardly breathe. He felt like he was suffocating.

“I—I don’t… I can’t. I  _ can’t _ ,” Stiles gasped out, stumbling a step to the side. 

He had no idea when the pack had left, but he didn’t see them when he hurried to his room. He needed—he needed to be  _ away _ . He didn't know what to do, what to  _ think _ . He was confused, though he knew he was angry. Angry that Noah dared to come back after so long, after causing Stiles so much pain. 

But he was hurt, too. Old pain rearing its head, feeling fresh and sharp where it stung at his chest. Rejection that he had tried to bury for years was pounding against Stiles heart, making everything  _ hurt _ .

Stiles leaned against his bedroom door the second he had it closed, his knees refusing to support him any longer. He sunk to the floor, chest tight even as he tried to take in a full breath. He knew he was panicking, but he couldn’t pull himself out of it. Everything—everything hurt too much. He didn’t want to feel anymore, not when he couldn’t make sense of anything.

He crawled to his bed and wrapped himself in his blanket, hid under the covers and focused on his breathing until it didn’t feel like he was drowning quite as much. He  _ couldn’t _ , couldn’t deal with the mess of emotions right now, and he had no idea when he would be able to sort the jumbled mess his brain was.

He knew he was exhausted, and he was still crying, his eyes continuing to water even as he tried to get his breath to stop hitching. He focused on his breathing, pulled from the support his pack was sending him through their bonds and let it wash over him, cocoon himself in the familiar feeling of his pack.

* * *

Stiles had fallen asleep quickly, though it hadn't been restful. The emotional high and crash he had gone through while in Noah’s arms had worn him out, completely exhausted him, and he had fallen asleep almost the moment he had pulled himself into his bed. He had tossed and turned, though, restless even in sleep. It was still dark out when he woke.

For a long moment, it all felt like a terrible dream. Stiles could hardly believe that Noah was really back—didn’t want to believe it, in case it all really had been a dream. He didn’t think so, not really, but he needed to be sure. Never before had he dreamed of Noah being  _ older _ , but Stiles didn’t want to trust himself with this.

The route from his bed to the guest room’s door was a familiar one, once well-worn, though Stiles hadn’t made the walk down the hall in ages. He stood outside the door for a long moment, the hardwood cool even through his socks. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go in, on the off chance that the room was empty.

The temptation was too strong, though, and he twisted the doorknob as slowly as he could. He knew his father was working the night shift, that asides from Noah the house was empty. The door was silent when it swung open and the light from the hall seeped in, gave just enough light for Stiles to make out the figure in the bed.

Noah was lying on his back, an arm lying across his bare stomach, the covers low on his waist. The strip of light from the open door landed across his face, and Stiles took a moment to stare. Noah was  _ gorgeous _ . He was also hairy, his chest and belly covered in dark fur and Stiles found it hard to keep his eyes off the line of darker hair that lead into the blanket.

He took a step forward on autopilot, though he somehow managed to close the door behind him. He caught up with himself when his calves hit the edge the bed, and Stiles took a deep, shaking breath. He knew he was a mess of anger and hurt, though he wasn’t sure which one was stronger. 

“C’mere, please,” Noah’s voice was whisper soft in the silence of the room, and Stiles’ eyes dart downwards.

He hadn’t noticed that Noah had woken up, though it may have been because the man hadn’t moved. He was still lying on his back, though his head was now titled towards Stiles. His mouth was twisted up into something like a smile—though his eyes held too much hurt, too much regret for it be anything close to happy. 

Stiles didn’t answer, but he undid the button on his jeans and pushed them down to his thighs, pulling them and his socks off with the heels of his feet. Noah’s smile turned into something more genuine, then, almost impossible for Stiles to see in the darkness of the room. Noah lifted the edge of the blanket for him, just like he always had, and the action made Stiles want to cry and scream all at the same time.

He did neither, and rather he crawled close, as close as he could get. Noah opened his arms for him, welcomed him into his body and pulled him just as close. Stiles let his eyes close, the skin of Noah's chest warm against his cheek as he breathed deep, tried to settle his pounding heart.

Stiles was sure this was a bad idea, would only make him hurt more in the morning, but he didn’t want to pull away, never wanted to be anywhere but Noah’s arms. Not anymore, now that he finally had him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be honest, I do not have a plan as to when I am going to write more of this. I _do_ have it fairly high on my fic writing list, but my fic writing list is very long. I have a lot of projects I am going to work on before finishing this up, but it **WILL** get finished (unless i like, up and die, then all bets are off).


End file.
